Not Ready to Make Nice
by Ladyhawke 620 - airwolf addict
Summary: Events of an arms deal gone sour threatens Archangel's and Marella's lives and bring old ghosts to life. What'll be left when all is said and done?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - Story contains original characters from the series Airwolf by Donald Belisarius. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this piece. Additional characters belong to Ladyhawke 620.

* * *

_Introduction - This story is set in the timeline before the creation of Airwolf by Charles Henry Moffet. It picks up sometime after the story Shadows of the Past.  
_

_Hope you enjoy, Ladyhawke 620_

* * *

Not Ready to Make Nice

Dull thudding pounding in his head, Michael winced, blinking. The rough grit of concrete rasped against his cheek with a sharp scrape. Drawing a shuddering breath, he sought some recollection of what might've happened…

"Marella…," he whispered, sense returning abruptly, his blue eyes flashing wide. The flutter of papers beside him, told him things hadn't gone well, whatever well was…"Blast," he cursed, pushing himself up.

Reeling, he shoved free of the floor. The wall beside him shuddered and slid, blurring and he fought to catch himself, head reeling. Lean fingers flexed and clenched against rough floor.

"Getting too old for this…"he muttered. Maybe not, as the youngest Deputy Director the Firm had ever had, but suddenly it was sure feeling like it. Grimacing he picked himself up, wincing at the sharp ache in his shoulders and back.

_Where was she? He wondered frantically. Heck, where was he? _Dazed, he staggered, trying desperately to make sense of his surroundings.

"Sir?"

Startled, he spun at the sound of her voice a lump in his throat threatening to choke him as his eyes met hers.

A firmly muscled man in a grayish suit held her, one hand clamped tightly around her arm and an 8mm at her temple. Scared brown eyes met his for a long second, the terror in them just as quickly concealed as he'd seen it.

_Maybe she wasn't scared, but he was petrified._

The sharp click of a dress shoe in the hallway behind her, ripped his attention from Marella.

"Lindgren," he spat in disgust, eyeing the slender man behind her. "I should've known."

Pale green eyes glittered with malice. "Yes, you should have, Archangel. When I make a promise, I keep it."

Michael frowned. He should have known. He'd never been one to like loose ends, it stood to reason neither did Rhys. And Marella was a loose end.

_So was he._

"So, what is it you want?" he bit out, not so much for the answer, but mostly in the hope he could buy them some time.

He already knew what Rhy's wanted.

_His head on a platter._

Lindgren laughed, the sound brittle and hard. "I want revenge, of course Michael." Bitterness edged his eyes. "You really messed up my plans, Archangel when you blew my cover with the Soviets."

Michael grimaced, knowing three good agents had paid with their lives that day because of Lindgren's deal with the Russians.

Sonya had been one of them. If it hadn't been for Marella's quick wit, he would've been the fourth.

"Well, it can't always turn out how we hope," he drawled laconically.

Irritation flashed in the pale green eyes. "You hung me out to dry, Michael!" he snapped. I haven't forgotten that."

"Neither have I," Archangel said softly, his tone deadly as he eyed the other.

Lindgren smirked, catching the accessing look in the spy's gaze. A sudden grin split the gamine features. "Clever, Michael," he whispered. "Just not clever enough." Coldly, he brought the gun he held up, pointing it directly in Archangel's face. "Now move it, before I splatter you all over the wall there and forget I have a use for you."

* * *

A sharp jab in the back propelled him into the room, the door clicking shut before he could do anything about it. Desperate, he slung himself at it even as he heard the ensuing scuffle outside.

_Marella. Alone._

Furious, he slammed his palm against the wood, even as the scuffle got louder.

There was a dull thump and abruptly the struggle ceased. Panic-stricken, he slammed his shoulder again and again against the door to no avail.

_Whatever it was, she was on her own now._

* * *

Shoulders hunched against the dull weariness that had settled there, Archangel contemplated the four walls that held him prisoner.

He harbored no illusions Lindgren fully intended to kill him. The only questions being the when and how. Surprisingly, he found himself okay with that; he'd known from the start the odds were he'd die on some assignment someday.

_It was Marella who bothered him more. Marella whose intellect and beauty should've taken her far, Marella whom he'd talked into the whole spy game in the first place…_

_Marella who'd saved his life, and now he was going to cost hers._

_She deserved better, he thought bitterly._

* * *

Glaring, Marella eyed the icy green eyes set in an angular face, its lean proportions marred by a thin scar wending its way down one cheek.

_She'd given him that scar, when he'd tried to kill Michael two years ago. Her fingers curled remembering the glimmer of the blade in his hand, pulling it from his sleeve as Michael had turned away._

_She'd wrenched it away at the last possible second._

_Her only regret lay in not finishing the job. Their Russian hosts at the time had felt a little differently about the matter than she had... _

Generous lips moued in disapproval. So this, was what Lindgren looked like after all this time. She'd often wondered…

Pale green eyes lit in amusement. "So glad to see you again," Rhys stated coolly, his eyes trailing up and down her figure. "I was so afraid you wouldn't be able to come after our past…

….little disagreement."

Arching an angular eyebrow, Marella allowed the smallest smirk of her own to show through. "And I you," she rejoined, remembering his struggles and the desperate yelled imprecations when Archangel had turned the tables and handed him over to the Russians, convincing them to handle his "little" problem for him.

Anything remotely resembling a smirk slid off Lindgren's face as he set the 8mm down on the table. "I've got Michael now, Marella. The only thing I need you for is leverage. You'd do well to remember that." Pocketing the gun, he turned, locking the door behind him.

* * *

"So, how're you negotiating skills these days, Archangel?" Lindgren drawled.

"Evidently a little rusty," Michael replied wryly, lifting shackled wrists from the scarred table. "Why? You want to give me another go?"

Rhys grinned, the light in his eyes evil. "Maybe…"

Michael ignored the flare of hope in his chest. He knew better than to take anything Lindgren offered seriously. "Spit it out, Lindgren," he drawled. "What do you want?"

"Why you Michael…"

At the disbelieving snort, the double agent laughed. "Well, your negotiating skills anyway. The U.S. has a bio-chemical weapon the Russians want, and I want you to broker the deal."

"And what makes you think I would?" Archangel retorted disdainfully. He bitterly pulled against the cuffs chafing his wrists.

Lindgren smiled. "Because I have Marella. And you of all people should know what I'm willing to do to her to get what I want."

Panic clawed at his chest, before Michael shoved it away, ruthlessly tamping down anything he might feel and forcing cool blue eyes to meet Lindgren's. "She knew what she signed up for when she joined, Rhys. I'm no traitor."

Anger glittered briefly in the other man's eyes before the well-schooled mask slid into place. "Really?" he asked archly. "Are you so sure?"

A chilly silence stretched out between the two men, memories of their last meeting rushing to the forefront. Lindgren might carry the physical scars from the altercation, but his ran every bit as deep.

"Yeah," Michael retorted, jerking his head away abruptly.

Lindgren hesitated, before finally shrugging. "Suit yourself, Michael." Lean fingers nonchalantly slid into his pants pockets as he turned away towards the door.

Unmoving, Archangel glared straight ahead, ignoring the other's retreat.

Lindgren paused just inside the door, glancing back. "Somehow, I would've thought better of you, Archangel…Shame, really. I liked Sonya."

Blue eyes snatched to his, jaw clenching.

"You know she begged me to kill her at the end…, don't you?" The blonde brows raised sardonically. "I almost wished I could." Thin lips twisted humorlessly. "And people say I'm a -------. Think you and I should trade the black hats."

Unreasoning fury seethed and Michael momentarily forgot the shackles chaining him to the chair as he slammed his weight upward. Steel bands slashed into skin, cutting, chafing, drawing blood.

He didn't notice, slamming his full weight against the cuffs.

_He'd always had his suspicions…had his fears...  
_

"Let her go, Lindgren," he ground out.

"No can do, Michael baby," he said mockingly. "That ball's squarely in your court."

He hesitated for a long moment in the doorway, before finally shrugging and turning away.

_Visions of Sonya flashing him a grin as she'd gone out that door the last time rose up, taunting him, her auburn hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. _

_Sonya'd trusted him with her life, and he'd cost her hers. Failed her in the worst way possible... _

_He couldn't do the same to Marella._

"I'll do it," he grated.

Lindgren grinned wickedly, not bothering to turn. "So glad to hear it, Michael. I knew I could count on you."

* * *

"What do you mean Archangel's missing?" Zeus roared. "You were supposed to be keeping tabs on them! He's supposed to be brokering a ten million dollar arms deal with the East Germans. I suppose next you're going to tell me you've lost the weapons too!"

Donovan Kincaid grimaced. He'd been knowing that was exactly what he was about to say. "Well, sir…"

Cold, grey eyes narrowed in a weathered face across the desk in front of him. "When?" he snarled. A beefy hand snapped across the desk knotting itself in his shirt so fast Kincaid didn't have a chance to avoid it.

"0900," he gritted, shoving himself free.

Teeth clenched, Zeus swung away from the senior agent. Nobody had to tell him Michael had a talent for losing a tail when he decided he didn't want one. The only question left was whether it was deliberate…

"Any sign of Parlovski?" he growled.

Straightening his tie, Kincaid stepped back. He like Archangel, but he wasn't going to throw his career away over him. "No, sir," he rasped. "One minute he was there, the next he was gone."

"Along with Marella and the weapons?"

"Well, actually we lost track of her about fifteen minutes earlier."

Scowling, Zeus cursed. Deliberate or not, Archangel and ten million dollars worth of armament were gone…

He sighed, it didn't much matter. "Shut down their sector and put Zebra squad on alert," he ordered. "They've got 36 hours."


	2. Chapter 2

Impatience clawed its way through Marella's gut. You didn't have to draw her an announcement to know Rhys Lindgren intended to kill both her and Michael.

Muttering, she flinched, breaking another nail as she fought the lock on the door. _And what was with Michael anyway? _Impotent fury coursed through her veins. _What he should've done was told Rhys to go to…_

Abruptly, the lock clicked beneath her hands and sprung free. She froze, listening, hesitating, and then slid from the room on stocking clad feet, a grin whispering on her lips. _Two could play at this game_.

* * *

Warily, Michael Coldsmith Briggs eyed the blonde-haired Russian colonel in front of him. Petrovoski was dangerous on a good day…

…and today was most definitely not a good day.

Whatever Lindgren had promised, the burly Russian colonel clearly wasn't buying it. And unfortunately, the other man was too stupid to see it.

_Figured. _Adrenaline thrummed through his veins as he looked for an out, knowing there was none. The best it appeared he could hope for, was to take Lindgren down with him.

_Great._

Behind him, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air. _Marella…he thought, panic flaring through his lungs.  
_

Startled, Petrovoski turned…Lunging, Michael threw his weight across the table, long, tanned fingers sliding across its polished surface as he grabbed for the gun at the Russian colonel's waist.

Chaos ensued, several of the Russian men running for the door, Lindgren's men spun in confusion, even as Petrovoski abruptly realized Michael's intent, slamming an elbow down into his throat. Grim-faced and gasping Archangel hung on, fingers knotting around the grip of the gun. Wrestling they fought for it.

Rifle fire rang out, Lindgren's voice cutting across the noise. "Enough! Enough!" he screamed. Locked in a life or death struggle, Petrovoski and Michael fought on.

Thwack! The deadly thud of a bullet slammed into the table beside them, splintering and spraying wood.

Rolling, Archangel dove for the floor taking Petrovoski and the gun with him. Movement flashed in his peripheral vision. Snatching for the gun, Michael rolled even as Lindgren raised his...

Gunfire exploded around him.

Fingers closed around the butt of the gun, tightening…

"Michael, no!"

Stunned blue eyes flared wide, chest heaving, finger freezing on the trigger…

…and staring up at Marella, a length of lead pipe in her hands as Lindgren lay sprawled across the floor. Dirt streaked her short, white skirt, torn and ripped, blood staining the hem. A run ran up one stocking clad leg…

_He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life._

Trembling fingers slid off the trigger, knowing he'd come within a hair's breadth of killing her. "What in Hade's name are you doing here?" he demanded, breath rasping through his lungs.

One scuffed stiletto heel nudged Lindgren's limp hand, none too gently, dislodging the weapon beneath it. It skittered across the floor towards him.

"Saving your butt," she retorted wryly. "What else?"

* * *

Shifting, Michael frowned, watching the plane with Petrovoski and Lindgren aboard take off.

"I still say you should've killed him," Marella remarked quietly, even as she crossed her arms.

He winced, knowing he'd have liked nothing better. "Probably," he agreed.

Surprise flashed in the dark eyes as she glanced at him. "Then why?" she demanded. "You know he killed Sonya, Michael! He tried to kill you before! And he would've this time, if he'd had the chance!"

_Not to mention you, he thought silently, that overwhelming feeling crushing his chest again at the memory of that blood-curdling scream. For a moment, he'd thought he had…_

He looked away, his gaze on the plane now nearly lost in the bright sun, knowing he'd taken a gamble unlike any other. Not just with his life, but hers as well. "We need him alive, Marella," he said coolly.

The dark brown eyes narrowed, her lips tightening. He could almost imagine her stomping her slender foot in anger. "Why?" She demanded. "You know he'll be back."

_That petite foot had kicked some butt today, he realized ruefully. He didn't want her kicking his._

One hand slid down his mustache, wondering how much he dared tell her. "He's got contacts, Marella. We need to know who he's working for."

Comprehension dawned in the doe brown eyes as she took a step back. "You set this up on purpose," she breathed incredulously, anger and fear quivering through her. "You dirty, low-down, lying…" Drawing back, she slapped him so hard her hand ached. "I don't believe you!"

Wincing, Michael staggered, knowing she was right. "Marella, wait!" he shouted, stumbling on the uneven ground, even as she spun furiously on her heel.


	3. Chapter 3

The flight back was silent, the tension so thick even the pilot had looked at them strangely. _After all…how do you explain you just let a murderer, a psychopath and a traitor go…?_

_You didn't, Archangel thought wearily. That's why even the government didn't claim spies._

Knightsbridge appeared on the horizon.

He sighed. _So much for according to plan…_

* * *

Hard-soled shoes echoing hollowly down the corridor, Michael paused in front of his office watching Marella go.

Dark hair swaying across the slender shoulders, she continued down the hall, never hesitating.

Silently, he watched her walk away, knowing his mistake in underestimating Lindgren could've cost them both their lives.

_It still might._

Grimly, he reached for the door handle. It swung open, a sound within slamming him to the awareness he was no longer alone. Instinctively, he reached for the gun at his back, only to realize it was gone somewhere back in East Germany.

Zeus smirked, as if reading his thoughts, and shifted to prop his feet unceremoniously on Archangel's new cherry wood desk.

Irritation surged through his gut, but he knew far better than to say anything. If all he got out of this was a marred desk, he ought to be grateful.

_Something like a scar that reminded you to duck next time._

"So glad you made it back in time, Michael. I was beginning to wonder," the committee head remarked dryly.

The idle thought of wondering how close he'd come to having Zebra squad here waiting on him instead, crossed his mind. Lean fingers raked his mustache. "Oh, you know me," Michael retorted wryly. "Always turning up like a bad penny."

Scowling, Zeus' feet hit the floor, shoving to his full height. "Where's my weapons, Archangel?" he demanded angrily.

_So much for the deep-seated concern. _Michael grinned, lean fingers stroking his mustache and hiding his own amusement. "**Your** weapons, Zeus?" he questioned.

Thick, square hands slammed to the top of the desk. "Cut the crap, Archangel or I'll call Zebra squad back in! I can guaranty you and Marella won't mince out of that one again so easily!"

_No, they wouldn't, Michael acknowledged with a trace of cynicism, knowing it'd be a simple thing to make an enemy out of Zeus._

_And one more enemy was something he certainly didn't need._

"Calm yourself, Zeus," he muttered dryly. "The weapons are safe."

"Where?" he demanded.

Archangel shoved away from the door, never turning his back on the other man. "Never left the country. Container shipped overseas had c-rations in it."

Stunned, Zeus stared at him, before breaking into a harsh laugh. "How? Or should I even ask?"

"Marella switched the labels on the crates. The barcodes were right, so they matched the manifests and we had no problem getting them off base. Lindgren only read the label."

Zeus' grin was wicked. "He doesn't know?" he queried.

"No."

The harsh laugh was back. "Going to be quite a surprise when the Russians open that crate."

"Yeah," Archangel replied grimly, watching him. "I suppose so."

* * *

The top of the crate gave way with a loud pop, even as the board beneath his hands cracked. Stubbornly though, it refused to open, despite the weight Rhys Lindgren levered against it.

He bit off a curse, his hand slipping on the rusty crowbar and slamming knuckles against rough wood.

"Well?" a sharp voice, behind him snapped impatiently.

Glancing up, he felt, as much as saw the menace in Nickolai Tolkiev's face.

He didn't glance up again. Tolkiev might have the face of an angel underneath that shock of midnight black hair, but any resemblance ended there.

Shoving away the all too real fear that clogged his throat, he leaned harder.

This time the lid gave, sliding off with a groan only to reveal…

…a package of c-rations?

Hands trembling, he reached for the packing.

"Today, Lindgren!" Tolkiev bit out his voice harsh. "I haven't got all day.

Rhys nodded blindly, dropping to his knees, fingers scrabbling through raffia. _No! It couldn't be! It couldn't…_

Numbly, he fought to breathe, to think…

A footfall rasped against concrete, Nickolai's command sharp, guttural on his ears.

Clarity slammed through his blood. _Archangel, _he thought, unreasoning fury coursing through his body. _He'd played him._

The deadly click of the safety on an automatic being dropped, echoed off the walls behind him.

Heart pounding, Lindgren lunged, leaning into the crate and grabbing for his gun as he did so. Motion hidden beneath his jacket, desperate fingers reached across his body, closing on the grip as he did so. Twisting, he spun, drawing the gun as he fell.

* * *

Heels echoing down the hall, Marella kept walking, sensing rather than seeing Michael stop. She knew the moment he stepped away, felt the coldness sink into her soul.

_What was he thinking?_

_Hang, what was she? How could he risk everything after Lindgren had nearly killed him before?_

Fear still stuttered through her at the thought of Lindgren, knife in his hand, the blade arcing down. Knowing if she failed, if she missed, Michael died…

Well, she hadn't, she thought, shoving her shoulders back even as her lip quivered.

_Stupid man._

He'd risked it all again, by not telling her, risked her life as well. All on a gamble, a stupid gamble…

_And they said women didn't have a head for this kinda business…_

That was probably a stupid man too, she thought, the tears welling. Figured. Angrily, she swiped a hand across her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall.

Shoulders slumping, she turned the corner, clutching the stack of file folders closer to her, her vision blurring, acknowledging the truth even if only to herself. It mattered only because it was Michael.

_Stupid man._

_Stupider her._

The tears fell.


End file.
